


Be My Great Escape

by ionsquare



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6909991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionsquare/pseuds/ionsquare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who the hell is Bucky Barnes? Sam has no idea, but he's about to find out. At least his sophomore year of college is shaping up to be an interesting one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My Great Escape

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I wouldn't write in Marvel fandom, and well, here we are. This is a result of all those Bucky/Sam feelings I had bubbling up during CA:TWS _completely_ grab hold of me after _Civil War_. I decided to tag this as comic-verse and movie-verse because I used bits of their origin stories from the comics, while their personalities and what they look like in my mind are from the movies. 
> 
> Any remaining mistakes are mine; sometimes the POV may switch suddenly, but it shouldn't be confusing.
> 
> My undying love to Dani for reading this over. ♥
> 
> Title from _Wild Ones_ by Bahari.

Sam Wilson is an engineering major but he loves sketching birds. Sitting out in the quad on sunny days, squinting up at the trees, shading feathers and--

"Is that a pigeon?"

Sam glares over his shoulder. The first thing he sees is a pair of muddy, loosely tied boots, and the second thing he sees is the most handsome face with the most arrogant smile. No, not arrogant. Smug.

"No it isn't a pigeon," Sam tells the stranger.

The stranger takes up all the space beside Sam, sprawling out, ankles crossed, leaning back on an elbow. His hair is done up in one of those stupid buns.

Sam's angry that he finds this guy so attractive.

"My name's Bucky."

"Bucky?" Sam snorts.

"You got a problem with my name, Birdman?"

"My name is Sam."

"I think it's Birdman."

Sam huffs and ignores him, Bucky, if that’s even his real name. Who names their kid Bucky anyway? He keeps shading feathers until Bucky leans into his space, chin propped on his hand, and there’s something really odd about his hand. Sam doesn’t care enough to pay better attention, factoring in fingerless gloves as another thing that’s making Bucky more and more attractive to him.

“Did you want something?” Sam finally asks, getting slowly irritated with Bucky.

“C’mon, Birdman, let’s eat.”

He’s not sure if it’s morbid curiosity why he decides to follow this Bucky guy, but Sam’s also really hungry, so that’s the reasoning he settles on.

On their walk towards the dining hall, Sam learns quite a bit about Bucky: he hasn’t declared a major, he doesn’t like doing laundry, and he will only eat at the dining hall across campus. Sam has no idea why, and honestly, he doesn’t care.

He might care a little.

Sam watches Bucky pile a tray with a bowl of cereal, a plate of chicken fingers and fries, three bananas, five bags of snack size Lay’s potato chips, two glasses of Coke, and tops it off by holding two chocolate chip cookies in his mouth.

The only thing Sam has on his tray is hamburger and fries, and a bottle of water.

“Where do you stay at?” Bucky asks, dumping out a bag of chips, squirting ketchup on them.

Sam watches Bucky with a disgusted look. “I stay on the Hill.”

“College Hill?” Bucky laughs, shaking his head. “Didn’t take you for the rich boy party type.”

“I’m not -- Whatever. Where do _you_ stay?” Sam swipes the ketchup, making a perfect tiny mountain for prime dipping.

“White Hall,” Bucky says proudly.

“Wasn’t there a fire in White last week?”

Bucky shrugs.

“Did _you_  set the fire?” Sam asks.

Bucky casually waves a hand deflecting the question.

“You did!”

“Don’t make assumptions about me, Birdman,” Bucky says around a mouthful of cereal. “But Rumlow had it coming.” He licks his lips, nodding at Sam’s bag. “You’re an art major?”

“Engineering,” Sam corrects.

“So, what, you just really like birds?”

“What’s wrong with birds?” Sam asks defensively. “Why are you grinning at me like that?”

“I can’t grin, Samuel?” Bucky continues grinning.

“Sam.”

“Okay, Birdman.”

Sam exhales sharply, biting angrily into his burger. “I don’t think your name is Bucky.”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Bucky says to his tray of food. He looks up at Sam and there’s a look on his face he can’t figure out. It makes him shift; makes his skin tingle.

The tone of Bucky’s voice changes when he announces his full name, and it makes Sam swallow weirdly, especially the look he has on his face. Like he’s waiting for Sam to crack another joke.

“Samuel Thomas Wilson,” Sam says with a smile.

Bucky grins again. “You sure it isn’t Samuel Birdman Wilson?”

Sam hates Bucky.

***~*~***

 

Sam has known Bucky for a month but it feels like ten years. Ten long, grueling years.

He never questions it, but sometimes Bucky will show up at his room late at night. He doesn’t have any of his books or anything, just one backpack and a pillow. Sometimes, Sam sees the shadows of nightmares lingering in his friend’s demeanor, the dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep.

Tonight is no different, except it’s pouring down rain when Sam goes to let Bucky in. He’s clutching his backpack to his chest, his clothes clinging to his skin, and his hair nothing but a dark curtain around his face.

“Bucky?” He asks tentatively. Sam gets nothing out of him, just moves aside when Bucky steps through the door, staring at the ground. “Talk to me--”

“No talking,” Bucky says quietly, “please.”

“Okay, come on.” Sam heads upstairs, looking over his shoulder to make sure Bucky is still with him. And he is, merely clutching his backpack and shivering. “I have a space heater if you need the extra warmth.”

Bucky stays silent when they get into Sam’s room. He’s not really sure what to say at the moment, so Sam sticks with the silent treatment. Bucky steals a towel to dry off and Sam barely has time to turn around before Bucky’s stripping off his wet clothes. Sam stares at the wall, feeling himself blush.

“I’m decent,” Bucky mumbles.

Sam turns around, rubbing the back of his neck. He can’t believe Bucky’s wearing a pair of his sweatpants, but there’s no point in asking him to take them off now.

“I have a test to study for,” Sam says.

“I’m gonna lay down,” Bucky says, collapsing right on Sam’s bed.

Typical Bucky, Sam thinks, sitting down at his desk. He sits there for a few hours, eyes getting heavy as he reads one section of his notes four times, chin slowly dipping towards his chest. He's not getting any more studying accomplished so he finally calls it a night, reaching to click off the lamp when he sees it -- Bucky's left arm.

He took off his sweater at some point, lying in Sam's bed wearing Sam's sweatpants, and a grey cotton tank showing off the intricately detailed sleeve tattoo that is Bucky's left arm. Sam leans in close enough to see that it's a tattoo of a metal arm spanning his entire arm and part of his shoulder, down to his wrist, ending like a glove on his hand.

"Sam."

He's startled by the sound of his own name, staring wide-eyed at Bucky.

"You need to sleep," Bucky says hoarsely.

Sam's still drawn to the amazing detail of his tattoo, fixated on the bright red star on his shoulder.

"There's a story here," Sam murmurs, eyes meeting Bucky's.

"I'm not telling you a fuckin' bedtime story." Bucky punches the pillow under his head, tucking his arm close to him.

Sam clicks off the lamp, doesn't even think twice when he crawls in bed next to Bucky. Usually, when Bucky stays in his room on nights like this, he uses a sleeping bag Sam keeps in his closet.

"I was young when I lost my parents," Bucky says quietly. He adds a moment later, "Not at the same time."

Sam turns over on his left side so he’s looking at Bucky.

“Don’t make this weird, Birdman.”

“I’m not,” Sam grumbles, rolling his eyes.

“Today was my dad’s birthday.”

“I’m sorry, Bucky.” Sam understands that pain, but this is Bucky’s grief, not his. “You wanna get breakfast with me in the morning?”

“I’m gonna eat your pancakes,” Bucky promises.

Maybe Sam doesn’t hate him so much anymore.

***~*~***

 

Bucky Barnes is a sophomore with a still undeclared major, but he’s very fascinated with Anthropology. He digs old shit, which you can’t even jokingly say apparently. Whatever, he likes old shit, his metal arm sleeve, ketchup on potato chips, his boots--

And Sam Wilson.

It gets under his skin how much he enjoys the passion Sam has for birds. Of all things to be passionate about. Bucky doesn’t get it, but Sam likes birds, and Bucky likes Sam. Even if he has to spend most of his afternoons now bird watching with his Birdman.

He has a lot of emotional baggage, and he appreciates, more than anything, that Sam doesn’t ask him to talk about it. Bucky’s never been down with the whole ‘Oh If You Talk About It You’ll Feel Better’ -- that’s bullshit. Maybe that works for some people but it doesn’t work for him.

He copes with his baggage and grief by hiding away in Sam’s room.

Sharing a bed with Sam is on his list of favorite things now; his favorite thing is still ketchup on his potato chips.

Bucky didn’t know he could get jealous until he waited for Sam to get out of his math class one afternoon, and Sam came walking out, laughing (actually laughing) with some guy named Steve. He stood up so fast he almost fell right back down on his ass. Sam gave him a look but he just brushed it off because of Steve Rogers.

Steve. Who the hell does Steve Rogers think he is?

“Hey, I’m Steve.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky snaps at him.

“Uh…” Steve laughs nervously, glancing at Sam. “Anyway, I’ll see you Thursday, Falcon.”

“His name is Sam,” Bucky snaps again.

Sam blinks at Bucky but he’s already walking in the opposite direction. Away from Steve. Steve Rogers. Steve and Sam.

Bucky really likes Sam.

“Bucky!” Sam shouts at him, but he keeps walking. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“What? What, Sam?” Bucky rounds on him, getting in his face for no reason.

“Talk to me,” Sam cajoles, playfully pushing Bucky on the shoulder.

“Why did he call you falcon? What the hell does that even mean?”

“Falcons are my favorite bird,” Sam says, brow furrowed.

Bucky didn’t know that. He’s known Sam for months now and he didn’t know that.

“I did-didn’t know that.” Bucky swallows hard, pulling on the collar of his shirt. He feels like he’s suffocating. It’s a stupid thing, really. Sam’s favorite bird is a falcon, and Bucky should have known that. He hasn’t wasted his afternoons bird watching with Sam for nothing.

“It’s okay, I mean,” Sam shrugs, “it isn’t a big deal. But why did you go all He-Man on Steve?”

Bucky can feel his face scrunch in anger.

“He literally said hey and you looked like you wanted to punch him.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Barnes,” Sam says.

“Stop -- Don’t.” Bucky knows that’s how Sam gets him to talk. He doesn’t talk, that’s not what he does, and Sam can’t make him. “Don’t say my name like that. Whatever, I didn’t mean to yell at your boyfriend. Whatever.”

Sam tilts his head. “Boyfriend?”

“Whatever! I don’t know!” Bucky scoffs, walking in the direction of White Hall. “I have homework to do.”

“You don’t do homework!” Sam shouts at him.

“Fuck you!”

Bucky likes Sam a lot.

The next time he sees Sam he’s walking up to him in the dining hall. Bucky’s sitting in one of the armchairs by the floor-to-ceiling windows; people watching tends to calm his brain down.

“Did you do your homework?” Sam asks.

“Shut up,” Bucky says, sinking down further into the chair.

Sam just stands there, watching him, and it starts to drive Bucky crazy. He’s on his feet, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, trying to look as though he’s glaring daggers at Sam.

“Is this because you didn’t know what my favorite bird is?”

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious, Barnes, you either use your fucking words or--”

“Don’t say my name like that,” Bucky warns.

“I have to, because I don’t know which Bucky I’m talking to right now.”

Bucky stares at him. “What does that mean?”

“This isn’t the Bucky who comes to my room in the middle of the night when grief is eating at him.” Sam swallows hard, but he keeps going. “This isn’t the carefree Bucky who steals the last bite of my pancakes, who steals my clothes because he’s too lazy to do laundry, who willingly watches birds with me even though it bores the shit out of him.” Sam meets Bucky’s gaze and there’s a look on his face he hasn’t seen before.

This is the moment. This is the opening Bucky could take advantage of. He could grab Sam by his bomber jacket and haul him close, feel all those hard but soft lines of his body pressing into him as he kisses Sam.

But he wants it to be a  _better_  moment.

“You’re talking to asshole Bucky, who overreacts over stupid shit.”

“Next time don’t run away, asshole.” Sam punches him gently on the arm. “Pancakes?”

Bucky is fucked over Sam Wilson.

***~*~***

 

Sam’s grateful he paid extra to have his own dorm room as he navigates his way inside White Hall. Bucky gave him specific directions to his room: eighth floor, go left, ignore the bear, down the hallway, last door on the right. Currently, Sam is trapped in an elevator with a senior named Clint Barton who smells suspiciously like weed, and who’s, coincidentally, Bucky’s roommate.

“So what’s the deal with that bear?” Sam asks conversationally.

Clint slowly looks over at Sam, squinting at him accusingly.

“Who wants to know?”

Just then Sam’s phone rings, and thank fucking god, because he really needs to get out of here.

“Where are you?” Bucky asks when Sam answers.

“Trapped in the goddamn elevator.”

“I told you not to take the elevator,” Bucky says.

“No you didn’t!” Sam smacks his forehead, sighing loudly. “Your roommate’s in here with me.”

“Clint, really? You didn’t ask him about the bear did you?”

Sam remains silent.

“Goddammit, Birdman, I told you to ignore the bear.”

“Lemme see that,” Clint grunts, plucking Sam’s phone out of his hand. “Buchanan, bring my toolbox.” Clint ends the call with Bucky, handing Sam his phone back with a mischievous grin.

Forty-five minutes later, Sam is crawling out of the elevator that Bucky has propped open while Clint grabs his toolbox and begins doing the job that should be left to dorm maintenance.

“It happens all the time. Clint can fix it faster than maintenance can get here, which is usually weeks sometimes months. They hate coming over here.” Bucky grins widely. “Welcome to the jungle, Birdman.”

Sam has no idea what’s going on, but he’s with Bucky, and he still wants to know why there’s a gigantic stuffed bear duct taped to the wall wearing a bathing suit.

“I have so many questions,” Sam says upon entering Bucky’s room.

“We can’t all be neat freaks with an obsession with aves interior design,” Bucky quips, smirking at the look on Sam’s face.

Sam tries really hard not to blush, tries harder to school his emotions so his expression isn’t screaming ‘I can’t believe you just made an intelligent bird joke.’

“Are you impressed? You’re a little impressed.”

“Just -- Just shut up, man.” Sam drops his backpack on the floor. “Can I sit on your bed?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“It’s your bed, it’s… I don’t know that’s your personal space.” Sam stands there staring at Bucky, who’s looking at him like he has two heads. “I’m gonna sit down.”

Bucky just laughs, pulling off his shirt, and Sam sucks in a gasp of air that makes him feel a little lightheaded. Bucky stands with his back to Sam, and he never really appreciated just how beautiful Bucky is until this moment. He’s wearing a pair of black jeans with a hole right under his right ass cheek where Sam can see a bit of skin, and of course he’d be wearing a tank, because of course he wants Sam to suffer.

He watches Bucky tie his hair up in a ponytail and when he turns around Sam is overwhelmed.

Bucky Barnes is a force to be reckoned with.

“Ready to help me cram for finals?” Bucky claps his hands together and Sam jerks at the sound. “You don’t need to worry about Clint. He’s always in and out.”

“I’m not -- Okay -- Whatever that’s cool. So, um, where did you want to start?”

They spend a couple hours going over the jumble of notes Bucky tried to take for his classes, and Sam quickly learns that Bucky tends to focus better with lectures and visual aids. And that’s how Sam winds up spending another hour putting together a bunch of flash cards, a different color for each class. While Bucky’s going over his flash cards for his Anthropology class, Sam pulls out his sketchpad flipping to the back where there’s dozens of minute sketches and a few in depth portraits of Bucky.

He has to draw _something_ when he isn’t drawing birds and robotics.

“Is that my tattoo?” Bucky asks.

Sam quickly shuts his sketchpad, looking sheepish.

“Lemme see.” Bucky holds out a hand. “C’mon, Birdman.”

Sam sighs in defeat, handing it over. Bucky doesn’t say anything for a long time, and Sam sits impatiently, waiting and waiting, watching and wondering, chewing on his thumb.

Bucky traces the intricate detail of his tattoo in awe of the attention to detail that Sam has accomplished. He flips to a portrait of himself asleep under a tree, and now he knows what Sam’s doing when Bucky falls asleep during bird watching.

“I’m sorry,” Sam blurts out. “I know it’s weird.”

Bucky flips through more sketches, detailed closeups of his face, his hands, a lot of sketches of his tattoo sleeve, a few more portraits, even his boots.

“It’s… not weird,” Bucky says softly, handing the sketchpad back to Sam. He crawls across his bed until he’s sitting beside Sam, pressed right against him. He digs his phone out of his back pocket, taking a deep breath. “If you think that’s weird, check this out,” he says, handing his phone to Sam.

Sam looks at Bucky, taking his phone and--

There are three hundred photos on Bucky’s phone of Sam, Sam’s room, his clothes, and a couple screenshots Bucky happened to get from Snapchat. Most of them are him smiling and making faces.

“I don’t have a lot of photos of my parents, you know,” Bucky says, staring at his phone in Sam’s hand. “I was young when they both died. I remember my dad more than my mom, and I hate that. The tattoo is in memory of him.” Bucky shows Sam the palm of his left hand. “Later on I had my mom’s name tattooed there.” He boldly rests his hand, palm up, on Sam’s knee. “I...really fucking like you, like, a lot.”

Sam looks at Bucky’s hand, tracing the name of Bucky’s mother with his finger. Bucky’s fingers twitch and before Sam hesitates anymore his hand in Bucky’s, linking their fingers together.

“My mom was murdered by a mugger while she was protecting me and my siblings. It never gets easier, saying that, and sometimes I think I’ll wake up and it was all a bad dream.” Sam feels Bucky squeeze his hand in support. His hand is so warm and it feels good. It feels right.

“I guess I like you too.” Sam shrugs, side-eyeing Bucky, who shoves up against him.

And then Sam bravely leans in and kisses Bucky. It’s just his lips pressed to Bucky’s, until Bucky parts his lips and Sam makes a noise. Or maybe Bucky made that noise. Soon enough they’re making out, and it’s really hot and heavy, both of them eager for more, kissing harder. Sam can’t stop going for it each time Bucky tries to catch his breath; he wants this to last forever. Bucky’s hands are cupping his face and Sam’s hands are sliding under Bucky’s tank. Sam gets annoyed because he just wants to touch every single inch of Bucky Barnes. He wants to memorize every sound he makes.

“So do I,” Bucky murmurs against Sam’s lips. “Wanna touch you,” he says reverently, hands sliding down Sam’s chest. “Memorize you.”

Sam kisses him again before taking Bucky’s hand and placing a kiss on his palm. He keeps going, kissing Bucky’s wrist, and then placing a kiss on his shoulder where the red star sits.

“You’re fucking killing me, Samuel.”

“The feeling is mutual, James.”

Sam steals one more kiss before standing up, looking for his shoes.

"That bad huh?" Bucky quips, crossing his arms.

Sam gives him a sarcastic look. "I'm hungry, Barnes." He can see Bucky blush a little with embarrassment and Sam smiles because he made him do that.

"Who cares about food when we could be making out. A lot. All night," Bucky looks at Sam licking his lips, walking over to him.

Sam tugs Bucky towards him and he likes the conviction in Bucky's touch when he grips Sam's hips. His hands slide up Bucky's neck and their mouths meet in a slow, hungry kiss. He tilts his head to give Bucky room to kiss his neck, pressing closer.

"Bucky," Sam groans, gripping the back his neck.

Bucky lifts his head and shuts Sam up with another kiss, shoving him against the door, kissing him harder.

Sam moans, pulling his mouth away to catch his breath while Bucky mouths along his jaw and his chin. He curls his fingers in Bucky's ponytail giving it a yank, earning him another kiss. He curls his fingers in Bucky's hair until it all unravels like a dark curtain around their faces.

"I like your hair," Sam says, his hands cupping Bucky's face.

Bucky kisses Sam's wrists, rubbing his hands over Sam's. "You have nice hands," Bucky says, giving them a squeeze.

"C'mon," Sam gives him a quick kiss. "I'm starving."

"Will you let me kiss you in public?" Bucky has an arm wrapped around Sam as he locks the door.

Sam keeps his hand on Bucky's hip, thumb brushing the skin where his jeans are riding low.

"We're in public right now," Sam teases.

Bucky laughs, and it's a sound Sam wants to hear again and again.

***~*~***

 

Bucky isn’t used to having so much attention paid to him, or having someone who wants him to touch them, kiss them. Over the next few days him and Sam spend time getting to know one another a bit more, and a lot more intimately.

Sam even stayed over in Bucky’s room one night, tangled together in Bucky’s bed exchanging kisses, exploring each other’s bodies with their hands. Their mouths.

Bucky never knew his hipbones were an erogenous zone until Sam’s mouth claimed them for his very own.

They had been making out, Sam sprawled out on top of Bucky while his hands squeezed and kneaded Sam’s ass when Clint burst into the room.

“Don’t forget we have rules, Buchanan: no sex in our room,” Clint said, slamming the door on his way out.

Ever since that night it had gotten a little weird between them. Sam wasn’t being distant, but clearly the topic of sex was a touchy subject.

“Do you not want to have sex?” Bucky asks him flat out the next time they’re together.

Sam licks mustard off his finger, looking at Bucky a long time before answering.

“I mean, yeah. Eventually. Do -- Do you want to have sex?”

“With you? Absolutely.” Bucky steps closer, biting his lower lip, hooking his fingers through Sam’s belt loops. “No rush, but you know, I’ve thought about it.”

Sam watches Bucky’s mouth, slowly eating his burger.

Bucky leans in, whispering hotly in Sam’s ear, “I’d go a little slow at first. Build it up. You under me, tightening your thighs around me when I hit… just…,” Bucky rocks his hips into Sam’s, “right.” He brushes his nose down his neck, inhaling Sam’s cologne and soap, leaving a kiss right on his pulse point.

Sam moves his head, seeking out Bucky’s mouth, desperate for a kiss. He doesn’t care if they’re out in public, Bucky’s dirty mouth is a pressure point and he knows it. His fingers find Bucky’s hipbones, pressing and rubbing his thumbs there until they’re rocking their hips together, kissing harder.

“Sam,” Bucky breathes against Sam’s lips.

“Like the way you same my name like that,” Sam says, kissing him again, softer this time.

Bucky laughs lightly, resting his forehead against Sam’s.

“Is that why you’ve been,” Bucky steps back but keeps close, “dodging all the sex questions?”

“I’m not a virgin, Bucky.” Sam chucks his wrapper in the trash. “You’re just--”

“I’m, what, Sam? What am I?”

“You’re you. You’re...overwhelming, in a good way,” Sam adds quickly. “This, us? It’s good, great, even. I don’t want to rush anything. Especially not with you.”

Bucky’s mouth quirks, knocking shoulders with Sam, sliding an arm around his waist. Sam leans into him, greedy for Bucky’s body warmth, placing a kiss behind his ear.

“You overwhelm me too, you know,” Bucky says after they’ve been walking a while. “I’m not easily scared, but a part of me is scared of… hurting you.”

It’s one of the most honest things he’s ever said to Sam, and the silence eats at him until Sam stops him walking, tugging him back by the hand.

“You don’t scare me, Bucky Barnes.” He takes Bucky’s hand, tracing the lines of his tattoo. “How long did you sit for your tattoo?”

Bucky squints upward, head bopping from side to side. “Three months, give or take.”

“And you weren’t scared?”

“At first, maybe, a little.” He watches Sam continue to trace his tattoo, smiling faintly. “Didn’t hurt once I stopped thinking about it so much.”

Sam wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck. “See what I’m saying?”

“You’re infuriating, Sam Wilson, but I like you a whole fuckin’ lot.”

“I’m irresistible, how could you not like me?”

Bucky shakes his head wondering what he’s gotten himself into, but not regretting it at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, I was really nervous to post this because Marvel is such a gigantic fandom with so many diverting canons and storylines, and I didn't want to do any kind of disservice to these characters, you know? So I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I haven't written/posted anything in over _2 years_ and this was a lot of fun for me. 
> 
> Few tidbits: 1. I couldn't tell you about the bear, but that's the mystery of it, right? ;) 2. I intentionally didn't have Steve as an established link between Sam and Bucky _just in case_ I decide to revisit this verse later. To be determined and all that. 3. If you think I made up how long it took Bucky to get his tattoo, I didn't. A really good friend of mine, who I trust with tattoo advice/information, laid it all out for more, and yeah, it'd take about 3 months for completion.


End file.
